Animals are watching. Right now they are in the woods,
many of them looking back over their shoulders or peering
down at us from bridges of tree branches as we march below,
snapping dry wood with our boot soles and squashing soft,
fleshy mushrooms.
My companion stops.
"Did you
hear that?"
I stop too, listening to a chittering
forest of birds.
"What?" I ask.
"Something moved
over there," he says. "An animal."
We both drill our
eyes through the trees.
I am sixteen years old and,
like my friend, I am lost in the mountains of western
Wyoming. Not interminably lost, we just do not know exactly
where we are — besides being on an untrailed flank of the
Teton Mountains, over our heads in jackstraw timber. We had
taken off from a road at a random point that morning and
barged our way into a steep forest where no signs point the
way. We wanted to see what it was like in here. Day packs
are slung on our backs, containing water and some food. We
have no maps, no compasses. No whistles, flares, or
shelters. We have knives in our pockets and the clothes we
are wearing — all that is needed for a day of going
nowhere.
I peer with my friend through a thousand
broken shadows, seeing no movement save for twigs springing
back as small bark- colored birds flit from one tree to the
next. All the way along, we have been hearing animals
snitching and scratching, elk lumbering about with heavy
sounds, pine squirrels chattering, scolding from overhead.
But all we have seen are these few birds. Everything else is
lost to us behind tree trunks nearly touching one another. I
squint to see better.
"How big an animal?" I
ask.
"Big," he says. "I didn't see it, but it sounded
like something big."
"I don't see it."
"I don't
either."
Only so long can we stare at nothing, so we
start moving again, ducking under branches, touching the
ground with our hands, and leaving the big animal — whatever
it was — behind. Drunken, wild forest, it is far denser than
we anticipated, battering our shins as we step through
trapdoors of dead wood. Our hands slash in front of us,
clearing branches and beards of dry, stringy lichen.
Spiderwebs snap like trip wires across our lips, our
foreheads, our arms. We've been side- hilling for hours,
taking so many brief, natural paths that we don't really
know how to get back.
Ahead we find a big dollop of
scat on the ground and we stand around it, sweat dripping
from our eyebrows, wiped on the backs of our hands. The scat
looks like a big can of hash dumped on the ground. It is
full of berry hulls and black digested meat.
"Bear,"
my friend says.
"Yeah," I agree. "A big
bear."
"Grizzly, you think?"
"What's grizzly
scat look like?"
"I don't know."
My friend turns
a grin toward me. "What if it is a griz?" he says
excitedly.
Should we be excited? I wonder. Better than
being nervous, I suppose.
I don't want to see the
bear. I just like the tingle in my spine telling me there is
one nearby.
"Let's keep going," he says.
"Yeah,"
I agree.
Stupid kids, why not?
All we have to
follow are animal trails, faint inclinations left by elk or
deer or bear that passed through. Even squat clearings left
by waddling porcupines come in handy. They are all short-
lived, ending as suddenly as they began, putting us back in
thick trees where birds send warnings ahead of us, criers
calling through green crowns. I crawl under a toppled tree,
and my nose grazes the ground. I smell leaf rot and animals.
It is the odor of spices in an earthy, slightly unpalatable
dish: bonemeal, bobcat urine, wood fungus, worm dung. This
is the other side of the coin from the rest of my life, from
doors and walls and movie screens. This is the place that
does not belong to humans. Animals have scuffed the ground,
shat upon it, cleared twigs out of the way, folded down
grass in their sleeping. They are talking, leaving messages
written in scents on leaves and tree bark, whistling to one
another, hearing voices in the distance.
As we move, a
deer bounds away, stabbing its hooves into the ground with
punctuated sounds. Only the tips of its fawn- colored ears
are visible over ferns and serviceberry bushes. We look for
the deer, but it is gone that fast, vanished back into the
folds. After that, a gray jay sails in and lands on a branch
to see who we are, its soft, inquisitive eyes following us.
I feel as if we are dragging tin cans into the wilderness,
startling animals from their many private gardens.
A
little farther comes a sound like the weight of an elk
crashing through dead branches. My friend and I freeze, both
listening and wondering if the weight of an elk might also
sound like the weight of a mountain lion. I step up on top
of a rotten stump, and see nothing.
"What is it?" my
companion asks.
Not taking my eyes off the forest, I
say, "I don't know. A big animal. Sounds like an
elk."
By this age I was accustomed to going out with
no adult supervision. My mother had tried Little League on
me, and a goofy local version of Boy Scouts, but in the end
she just had to shoo me out the door and send me hiking.
Both my parents took their own, separate interest in wild
places — my father building great fi res and showing me the
taste of whiskey on cold Arizona mornings, and my mother
lightly tramping the mountains of Colorado and Wyoming,
picnicking atop slender timberline ridges. With such parents
I learned not to fear wild animals, only to know they are
there.
The forest deepens. We come into a stand of
old- growth trees where Douglas fir and short-needled spruce
muscle their way toward the light. No longer is there ground
to walk on, only decades of huge trees downed from
windstorms and disease. We balance across trunks as big
around as cars, fifteen feet off the ground, and follow each
other down into warrens of shattered debris.
We do not
know that a large predator is watching us from only a few
feet away. We do not know we are blithely stepping into its
territory. We know nothing until it leaps.
A rush of
motion and sound explodes from between fallen trunks
directly beneath our feet. Blood jacks straight into our
muscles. We take wings. We fly. Not once do we look down,
not even glimpsing the color of this creature. It is large,
something with strong lungs. I can hear its claws grinding
dead wood. The animal fills the forest with a territorial
uproar unlike anything I have ever heard. I am
gone.
Before my conscious mind even recognizes the
true presence of danger, before a second passes, I am turned
around and a good twenty feet away, trying to outrun my
companion with all my might. The animal's voice breaks the
air at my back. My mouth goes instantly dry, my whole body
cold and fast from adrenaline. I sail over dead trees. Feet
barely touch anything solid. I spot a snowmelt swamp cupped
nearby into the slope and I think of diving into it to
escape this beast, but all I can see is myself bogged to the
knees with some unknown creature feasting on my torso. For
all I know this is an undiscovered animal, a huge, clawed
primate, a meat-eating Sasquatch. I'm not ready to
die.
We run through our own cacophony of snapping
branches, our hands flinging tree limbs out of our way like
we're deflecting daggers in midair. Down the steep slope
only our boot tips touch ground. I become an acrobat, no gap
between hand and eye, no coordination needed because I am
right now a single muscle sliding like pure light between
the trees.
They say not to run. Stand your ground or
curl up in a fetal ball. Protect your head and your vital
organs. Bear, mountain lion, wolverine: whatever the case,
do not turn and run. Do not reveal your back and initiate a
chase. By the time such warnings enter my mind, I am making
a full- speed exit, hoping my companion will fall prey first
and give me some extra seconds.
The forest comes to an
end and we break into an open, day-lit meadow exactly where
we had started hours earlier. A couple of miles in the
distance is a road and the car we left there. We had
beelined our way back, sprinting down the mountain as if we
knew exactly where we were going. We stumble to a halt,
panting, leaning over with hands planted on our thighs. We
turn and look back. There is no beast. Whatever it was, it
has not pursued us. After a minute of watching, my heart
pumping but winding down, I say, "Mountain lion. You
think?"
"Yeah." My friend exhales. "Mountain
lion."
"Or a bear?" I ask.
"What does a bear
sound like?"
As I look into the trees, I wonder how
many animals are now settling from our loud, desperate
visit. How many eyes had watched us pass, how many heads
turned to see us careening through the woods? We overturned
their applecarts, stampeded through their bedrooms and
dining rooms, threw open their doors. We start laughing. We
laugh at ourselves. We laugh at our good fortune — both the
fortune of encountering what must have been a large
predatory animal and the fortune of it not running us down
and devouring us. We chide each other, letting our guard
drop a little. But we do not take our eyes off the dark wall
of trees. There is an animal inside with the smell of us
fresh in its nostrils. I realize that it had not been
attacking us. We would have been easy to catch. Instead, the
sound of its voice was strictly territorial, designed to
root down into our spines and trigger a flight response. We
did as we were told. We answered the animal clearly, playing
our part in the conversation with everything we
had.
When my companion finally turns and walks into
the meadow toward the road, I linger. I am not ready to
render myself back into a human being, not ready to return
to a car and an asphalt highway. I want to stay just a
moment longer. I peer into the forest, where every bit of
darkness and light has a face, a set of eyes looking out at
me. Nothing emerges. I feel the tug at my back, my friend
walking away, and I turn to catch up and become human
again.
Animalia
Copyright ©
1997, 2007 by Craig Childs